


Who Looks Inside

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Dream Sex, Dreams, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes - Carl Jung</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Looks Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://superkappa.livejournal.com/profile)[**superkappa**](http://superkappa.livejournal.com/) for the [Five Acts Meme: Round Two](http://toestastegood.livejournal.com/550739.html).

She dreams of him. It's always in the depth of the night, the desert wind cool against her heated skin. She rolls beneath the sheet, restless in the lingering warmth of Vulcan's fire-filled days, and finds him watching her.

The room is dark, little light afforded for her human eyes, making his features indistinct. It doesn't matter. She smiles and holds out a hand for him. They don't speak. They never do. She's not sure why as the house is empty and there's no one to overhear, but words would be wrong here and she keeps her silence. Keeps it and lets him decide the moments before them.

He doesn't take the outstretched hand immediately. It isn't a rejection and she doesn't take it as such either. She just waits and watches him as he stares at her. She can't see the desire in his gaze, but she knows it's there.

She waits, calm beneath his regard, until he's ready. When he is, he brings a hand forward to meet hers, fingertips brushing and teasing for a second. She's studied languages across dozens of worlds, systems, she's learned to let them sit on her lips until they sink in and she feels them as naturally as if they'd always belonged. She's learned to carry them like the high note of a great opera, filling the air around her.

This feels the same. His fingertips write sonnets into her skin, Vulcan's oldest words making themselves part of her and she carries its secrets into the waking world and feels them lingering like a promise as she moves through her day. A promise fulfilled when she closes her eyes at its end.

His fingers slide down her palm, trace around her wrist, and he follows it. His skin, fever hot, presses against hers and she sighs. It should be uncomfortable with the day's heat still cloying, but this is a dream and it doesn't have to be, so it isn't.

She laughs, kissing his shoulder, and he doesn't protest. He's boneless and comfortable at her side and lets her explore as she wills. She runs her hands over him the same every night, but each night is a miracle all the same.

Neither of their worlds puts much stock in miracles anymore. Those have been left behind in the onward march of science and technology, unfortunate casualties in the journey to the stars. In this world of phantoms and illusion, wonder is queen and miracles are reborn. Here she marries scientific and miraculous, feeling the strength Vulcan's atmosphere and gravity have bred into him and marveling at the beauty overlaying it.

Here, she can let herself savor the touch of his hands on her skin, in her hair, curling fistfuls of it as he pulls her toward a kiss. She can feel the heat of his mouth against hers and the promises his lips press into her.

She takes him into her body and feels his hands tighten, holding to her with a desperation that in waking hours he would never reveal. She rides him and he submits to her pace, moving with her as she wills.

When he shudders beneath her, his lips beginning to form the syllables of her name, she lets him go. Just this once, she lets him moan, "Nyota" into the air without kissing him into silence. Just this once, she needs to hear the myriad of unspoken emotions laced through the word.

She needs it as she needs these dreams. Knowing that the moment she opens her eyes is growing ever closer.

Closing her eyes, she presses her face against the heat of his shoulder. "I don't want to wake up," she confesses, breaking her self-imposed silence.

"You must. You are required on the bridge," his voice, even here, is rough with exhaustion and pain. It hurts her almost as much to listen as it does for him to speak. "I am certain Doctor McCoy will permit you to visit later."

"You can't answer there," she says, remembering how she'd stared at his face and only half heard M'Benga's explanation. Healing trances. Pain. Injury. "I need to be here, Spock. I need you with me."

She lifts her gaze, seeing him as he is in Sickbay each day. Bruised, battered and unexpectedly frail.

Spock says nothing to that, just raises his hand and holds out his fingers. "Soon," His eyes carry all he can't say as he adds, "Wake up, Nyota."

She presses her fingertips to his and does.


End file.
